


catch me if you can

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: Ladies Bingo 2020 [6]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, F/F, First Kiss, Light Dom/sub, Season/Series 02, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: The smart thing to do, Eve knows, would be to turn and walk back the way she came. If she moves quickly enough, she can duck into someone’s yard or behind a tree and call for backup. The second smartest thing to do would be to start screaming at the top of her lungs. It might not scare Villanelle off, but it would be worth a shot.The worst thing that she could do is drop her groceries to the filthy sidewalk and yell, “Hey!” at the exact moment that her eyes lock with Villanelle’s.Naturally, she chooses the last option.(or, in the midst of Eve's attempts to hunt her down, Villanelle shows up on Eve's doorstep with a gift.)
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: Ladies Bingo 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956031
Comments: 8
Kudos: 72
Collections: Ladies Bingo 2020





	catch me if you can

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 'factories and other industrial spaces' square on my [Ladies Bingo 2020](https://ladiesbingo.dreamwidth.org/) bingo card. it's been awhile since I watched season 2, and this is my first Killing Eve fic (somehow) so hopefully it's not a total disaster. also, I guess this is technically infidelity, but canon typical infidelity? so that's a thing.
> 
> major thanks go out to my lovely partner who, for some reason, asked if she could edit this fresh off the Nano presses, before I took a first pass at it.

Eve’s plans for the night consist of nothing more than a trip to the corner shop for dinner supplies.

Nico still isn’t answering her calls or texts, so she highly doubts that he’s going to make it home tonight. Which means there’s not much point in putting any real effort into dinner, especially when she’s barely hungry as is. For the last few months, her appetite has swung wildly between both extreme ends of the spectrum, and today, the mere thought of food is unappetizing. 

But she needs to eat _something_ , so noodles it is. Maybe she’ll drop an egg in, if she’s feeling particularly fancy. Doubtful, though. 

Since she’s just going down the block, she doesn’t bother to change out of her sweatpants. She does throw on a pair of trainers, ones she picked up a few years ago when she managed to convince herself that she was going to start going to the gym on a regular basis. That conviction had lasted a mere week or so, but the trainers had stuck around, still so white that they look fresh from the rack. 

A few blocks of walking will probably make short work of that. 

On her way back from the store with a plastic bag dangling at her side holding her meager grocery haul, she’s following the route by rote, feet automatically finding the way for her as her mind wanders. If she had any choice in the matter, she wouldn’t be at home tonight at all. She would be in the office, badgering Kenny to hunt down leads, staring at the map that fills much of one wall in the horrid smelling room, looking for any information that could lead them to Villanelle, anything that could tell them where she ran to after Eve almost gutted her. Sometimes she gets lost thinking about that moment, thinking about how, if she had twisted the knife a little more or yanked it to one side, ripped it through the pale flesh and tough muscle of Villanelle’s abdomen, that would have been the end right there. She’d probably be back behind a desk or awaiting the result of an inquest, but it would have been the end. 

But she hadn’t. And even now, if she was able to replay that moment again, she can’t say that she would have chosen to do any different. 

Still lost in her thoughts as she approaches her walkway, she starts rustling through her pocket for her keys, absently looking up at the front door, expecting to see nothing out of the ordinary. 

Instead, she makes direct eye contact with the person who’s just finished closing her front door, a person who is very much not supposed to be there. 

They’re wearing a baggy olive green jumpsuit with something stitched over the breast pocket, presumably a fake name. There’s a clipboard stuck under their arm, and they’re wearing a green flat cap as well, bulging slightly at the back with what Eve suspects is a bun, neatly tucked away. Even before the person finishes turning around, before Eve is able to see their face full-on, her pounding heart knows what it takes her brain a few moments to catch up on. 

Turns out that all of their research, all of their efforts to hunt down Villanelle, were totally unnecessary. 

Realistically, she probably should have expected this. 

The smart thing to do, Eve knows, would be to turn and walk back the way she came. If she moves quickly enough, she can duck into someone’s yard or behind a tree and call for backup. The second smartest thing to do would be to start screaming at the top of her lungs. It might not scare Villanelle off, but it would be worth a shot. 

The worst thing that she could do is drop her groceries to the filthy sidewalk and yell, “Hey!” at the exact moment that her eyes lock with Villanelle’s. 

Naturally, she chooses the last option, well aware that, if any of her neighbors happen to be looking outside at this moment, she probably looks like a complete lunatic. 

Villanelle’s eyes widen slightly, and she pauses mid-step. For a moment, she just stares back at Eve, frozen like an animal considering their options. 

In this case, the option that Villanelle chooses to go with is smirk, drop both her hat and clipboard onto Eve’s walkway, and take off running up the street, her long, muscled legs easily powering her along. For a moment, all Eve can do is watch her pound the pavement, hair slipping out of her bun and flying out behind her. 

But then, her brain catches up, connects the dots, and sends a signal to her feet, a signal saying “ _run, you moron_ ”. 

So, run she does, leaving her groceries behind, all thoughts of her pathetic dinner left in a heap on the sidewalk. Instead, she follows in Villanelle’s footsteps, keeping her eyes locked on Villanelle’s retreating back. Occasionally, Villanelle glances back over her shoulder, feline face twisted into an expression of absolute euphoria. Once, she even _waves_ , takes the time to waggle her fingers at Eve, all without missing a single beat. 

Eve hates her, for a multitude of reasons, but at this exact moment, she mainly hates her for how _easy_ she makes it look. 

She knows that what she’s doing is poor form. She should have called it in, should have let Villanelle take off, should have ducked into her home instead. There’s no telling what awaits her back there. Maybe Villanelle got her hands on Nico. Maybe her living room has been turned into a slaughterhouse, a bloodbath, gore streaked up and down the walls. Maybe there’s a neatly wrapped box awaiting her on the bed. 

She should probably be concerned about that, but it’ll have to wait. She let Villanelle slip through her fingers once before, and she’s not going to let it happen again. 

That being said, this could be a ploy. Villanelle could be leading her into a trap, or a setup where she’ll be kidnapped by The Twelve. She should definitely let someone know what’s going on. So, her chest already aching, hair flying into her face, the undone shoelaces of her useless fucking trainers threatening to trip her, she fumbles her mobile out of her pocket and takes her eyes off Villanelle’s rapidly retreating back, already a full block ahead of her. She brings it up to her face so quickly that she makes hard contact with her mouth, splitting her lip at the corner. The sharp burst of pain is so unexpected and unpleasant that she almost screams _fuck it_ and throws it into the street. Instead, hissing through her teeth as her tongue probes at the split spot, swallowing a drop of her own blood, she hits the speed dial button that corresponds to Kenny’s number and places the phone at her ear. He answers after three rings. 

“Eve? Everything alright?” 

“Can’t talk long,” she pants, momentarily embarrassed at how out of breath she is. “Villanelle is here. In London. I’m chasing her. Can you track me and send backup?” 

“Oh, shit.” Seconds later, she hears the rapid fire staccato tapping of Kenny’s fingers striking a keyboard. “Alright, got you. Stay on the line.” 

“I’m putting you back in my pocket. Can’t run and talk at the same time.” Before Kenny can protest, she jams her mobile back down into the sagging pocket of her cardigan and goes back to focusing on running, simultaneously gasping for breath and cursing every single cigarette that she ever consumed. 

Villanelle leads her on a merry chase away from her primarily residential neighborhood, cutting through a shopping district where she has to bob and weave through people jamming the sidewalks, people who stare at her and don’t budge when she screams at them to get out of her way, and then into a more industrial part of town that she’s not wholly familiar with, even though it’s really only a stone’s throw away, considering the sheer size and scope of the greater London area. Every part of Eve’s body begs her to suspend the chase, to admit that she’s been beaten, but she forces herself to keep going. There’s no telling when Villanelle will be this close again, _if_ she’ll be this close again – she may disappear back into the underground, and Eve knows that if Villanelle wants to completely disappear, she will. 

So she runs. Even when a stitch lances through her side, even when first one trainer, and then the other, flies off, she keeps running, bare feet pounding against the rough pavement in a way that she knows is going to leave bruises behind.

Eventually, once they’re thoroughly entangled in the industrial district, Villanelle veers away from the sidewalk for the first time. She abruptly cuts right and slips through a half-open gate set into a chain link fence topped with rusting barbed wire. The fence surrounds a factory complex, a series of sprawling buildings covered in graffiti and with smashed out windows, leaving behind gaping, shattered holes like broken teeth. Smokestacks that haven’t been fired in years loom overhead, and even though Eve knows it isn’t likely, she can’t help but be afraid that the pounding of their feet might vibrate up and cause the stacks to come crashing down on top of them. 

At the very least, it would be an interesting way to go. 

As she continues to follow after Villanelle, who zips past a pair of rusted out lorries and through a huge, gaping door leading into a warehouse, Eve’s suspicion that she is indeed running into a trap only grows stronger. She knows Villanelle, knows that the woman is beyond fit. She could absolutely outrun Eve on a bad day, let alone a good one. There’s also the fact that Villanelle’s whole job is being able to slip into crowds, being completely unnoticeable, masking her physical attributes so that they aren’t worthy of note. And yet, the whole time that Eve ran after her, even when it was through the chaos of the shopping district, Villanelle didn’t make a single attempt to deviate from her path. She didn’t try to duck into a crowd or a store, didn’t try to slip down an alleyway or mysteriously vanish. The most exciting thing she did was turn down a new street, and she kept looking back over her shoulder, as if she wanted to ensure that Eve was still coming after her, still following along like a new puppy on a leash. 

How could she have been this stupid? 

But it’s a little too late to think about that now. Charging into the darkness of the warehouse, she skids to a stop just inside the door. There’s some faint evening light trickling into the building through the door and the shattered windows, but it doesn’t extend much further than a few feet beyond the doorway, and there’s no telling what is awaiting her outside of its reach. Glass, for sure, which would easily puncture the already tender bottoms of her feet, probably shards of metal that would lead to tetanus, maybe a shallow hole that would break her ankle. 

“Villanelle?” she calls out into the darkness. After her voice has stopped echoing, she waits patiently for some kind of sound, for a sign that will lead her to Villanelle’s location. But aside from the faint whistling of the wind, a distant horn, and her own heavy breathing, there’s nothing. No faint footsteps or creaking of metal, nothing that reveals where she should be directing her attention. She takes another step into the cavernous room, absently tonguing at the corner of her mouth again. When she shifts her chin back and forth, she can feel the blood drying there, rapidly going tacky. 

She calls out Villanelle’s name again and, unsurprisingly, doesn’t get a response. After waiting an appropriate amount of time for an answer, she decides to take a different approach. 

If she’s learned one thing about her, it’s that Villanelle _loves_ to talk about the things she has done with people that she thinks can appreciate her. Eve just has to hope that Villanelle counts her on that list. 

“Did you kill my husband?” she yells into the void. 

“What?” Villanelle’s scoff echoes off the walls, making it difficult to pinpoint where it’s coming from, but at the very least, it confirms that she is still in the building with Eve. “No! Trust me, Eve, the day I kill him, I will tell you about it.” 

That doesn’t exactly fill Eve with relief, but at the very least, it means that she (probably) won’t be returning home to a gory crime scene. 

“Then why were you in my house?” she asks, taking another step into the room, carefully easing her foot down onto the cold, rough ground. “And why did you run?” 

“I brought you a present.” The echo makes it hard to tell, but Villanelle almost sounds outraged that Eve hadn’t considered that option first. “And running is good exercise.”

She sounds unbearably smug. Eve’s fingers itch to wrap tight around her throat. 

Since that isn’t an option at this exact moment, she takes another step into the room and says, “What’s the present?” 

By the time she hears Villanelle’s footsteps behind her, it’s too late. She tries her best to turn around in time, but Villanelle slams into her side and keeps going, like a train rolling over someone. She easily propels Eve across the space and slams her up against one of the towering square columns that supports the roof. When Eve’s back hits it, she immediately loses what little breath she had successfully regained, and it wheezes out of her mouth in a wholly undignified sound. 

Even in the dark, she can see Villanelle’s eyes gleaming brightly. Her hair is falling around her face, and her grin as sharp as a knife. Her forearm is pressed against Eve’s throat, keeping her tight against the rough concrete of the column, pinning her there like a butterfly in a collector’s frame. She shows absolutely no signs of being tired from their long run. Instead, she looks _exhilarated_. 

She also, Eve is pissed off to notice, smells absolutely fantastic, like some kind of masculine cologne, all dark wood and cigars and leather. She doesn’t want to notice that, but as soon as the smell enters her nostrils, she’s unable to ignore it, and it makes it a lot harder for her to be bothered by the fact that an internationally renowned assassin, an assassin with a very good reason for wanting revenge on her, has her inextricably pinned. 

Maybe she should have kept her groceries with her. It would have slowed her down, but maybe if she managed to throw one of her eggs at Villanelle while they were running, she wouldn’t be accosted by how goddamn good she smells. 

She aches even more to strangle the younger woman now. 

“I’m not going to tell you what’s in the present,” Villanelle responds, cocking her head to one side, flicking some of her fine blonde hair out of the way. “You’ll have to be patient.” She pauses for a moment, gaze boring into Eve, before she continues. “You’re not good at being patient, are you?” 

Even though she would solemnly deny that it happened if asked under oath, Eve can’t deny to herself that the words, and particularly the way Villanelle says them, as if she’s gently chiding Eve, make her knees buckle ever so slightly. If it wasn’t for the firm weight of Villanelle’s forearm against her throat, she would probably end up slumping directly to the floor. 

“I am so,” she rebuts, but it comes too late for the statement to have even a shred of credibility. Villanelle’s smile sharpens, and with her free hand, she pushes a thick clump of curls away from Eve’s face. 

“Liar,” she says fondly. Once Eve’s hair has been pushed back, she doesn’t take her hand away. Instead, with the tip of one long finger, she traces along the edge of Eve’s hairline, down to her cheek, down to where the wound at the corner of her lips has begun to clot. Her smile transforms into a frown that is still sharp at the edges. “What happened to you? I didn’t do this.” 

As embarrassing as the reason for the injury is, Eve doesn’t think about lying. Villanelle would be able to sniff it out of her immediately. “I hit myself in the face with my phone when I called for backup.” 

“Poor baby.” Villanelle clucks her tongue before she pokes it out of her mouth and drags the flat of it against the tip of her thumb. Before Eve can ask her what she’s doing, Villanelle gently rubs her wet thumb against Eve’s lip and down over her chin. She takes her time with it, and when she pulls her thumb back, the end of it is stained a faint red, and there are flakes of dried blood underneath her nail. Without hesitation, she pops her thumb into her mouth and sucks it clean, keeping her eyes on Eve the entire time. 

For the third time in the last hour, Eve forgets how to breathe. 

“There you go,” Villanelle says. Absently wiping her thumb off on her jumpsuit, she places her hand back on Eve’s cheek, long fingers curving around towards the back of her neck. The pressure of her forearm against Eve’s throat lessens slightly, but before Eve can think about taking advantage of that change, Villanelle leans forward and kisses her. 

Make that the _fourth_ time that she has forgotten how to breathe. 

It is not a gentle kiss, not the kiss of two lovers meeting for the first time, trying to figure out how they fit together. It is the kiss of a person who knows exactly what they want and how to get it, the kiss of someone who has been thinking about exactly this for ages. Villanelle’s tongue brushes against her bottom lip, over the tender spot, and Eve gasps, which gives Villanelle the perfect opportunity to slip her tongue into Eve’s mouth. 

Of all the things Eve has done tonight, of all the questionable decisions that will almost certainly come back to haunt her, everything else pales in comparison to her decision to throw caution to the wind and kiss Villanelle back. 

It feels like a dam breaking, like she’s cut a wire that’s been taut and overloaded for far too long. She forgets about their past, about the fact that this could just be another clever ruse, that at any moment, she might feel a knife pressing into her own abdomen. All she can think about is the here and now. All she can focus on is the taste of Villanelle’s mouth, the smell of her cologne, the way her fingers fit tightly into Eve’s hair and tug at her curls, the way her own hair feels, soft and fine, in Eve’s hands when she plunges her own fingers into it. At some point, when her mouth is aching and numb, she feels Villanelle’s arm drop away from her throat, and while she welcomes the increased airflow that comes alongside it, she misses the point of contact as soon as it is gone. 

She only has a few moments to think that thought before Villanelle’s knee pushes between her own, and the long line of her thigh presses up between the crux of Eve’s legs.

She gasps so forcefully that she breaks the kiss. Her head dropping back against the hard metal of the column, she stares at Villanelle, chest heaving for breath. Villanelle’s eyes are dark and wide, and she looks downright feral, like she wants nothing more than to take Eve to the floor and tear her apart, bit by bit. 

It wouldn’t be the most sanitary of places, but Eve wouldn’t stop her. She’s even started to prepare herself for it mentally, pressing herself down against the delicious pressure of Villanelle’s thigh, when Villanelle speaks again. 

“I really wish you hadn’t called for backup,” she sighs wistfully, sliding her hand out of Eve’s hair and placing it back on Eve’s cheek, curving it tighter this time, so that Eve can feel her fingertips pressing into the back of Eve’s neck. Her bottom lip is pooched out, like she’s pouting. 

“Why’s that?” Eve asks, barely able to recognize her own voice. She doesn’t remember the last time it was this shot through with lust. As good as sex with Nico is (or rather, was – it’s been months since they last fell into bed together), it’s still been awhile since she’s felt _this_ level of arousal, since she’s felt this desperate to be touched. 

It probably says something bad about her. Scratch that, it _definitely_ says something bad about her, but she’ll interrogate that later. 

“Because,” Villanelle replies, tightening her hand even further on Eve’s cheek. “I wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet.” 

The pressure between Eve’s legs drops away, but she has only a second to miss it before her head explodes. 

Pain fills the entirety of her skull, and her vision immediately turns black. Her knees give out, and without Villanelle holding her up, there’s nothing keeping her from sliding down the column and landing on the floor in a heap. Her ears are ringing, and even when her vision begins to come back, there are still white and black dots swimming in front of her eyes, making it hard for her to focus on anything. It’s like someone has scrambled her brain. Her eyes are at the level of Villanelle’s boots, but after a moment, she crouches down, hands between her knees, and peers at Eve. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” Bringing one hand to her mouth, she kisses her fingertips and presses them to Eve’s forehead. Even that relatively gentle touch is enough to make her feel like a rail spike has been slammed into her skull. 

Eve’s vision swims again, and the next time it clears (or rather, mostly clears), Villanelle is out of sight, and her footsteps are rapidly fading away. Eve presses her hands flat against the ground and tries to force herself to sit up, but the movement makes more agony flood through her. Her stomach swims with nausea, and it’s all she can do to keep herself from throwing up. She closes her eyes and forces herself to remain motionless, willing to admit that, for the time being, she’s stuck here. 

“Fuck,” she hisses between her teeth. After a moment, she realizes that she can hear sirens in the distance, and she reaches for her cardigan pocket. Her mobile is still there, somehow managed to stay in place as she ran, and she brings it to her ear, hearing only a faint crackling sound. 

“Kenny?” she asks, squeezing her eyes tight at the pain that comes from saying the word. “You still there?” 

“Still here. Backup should be there shortly. You alright? I couldn’t hear much.”

Eve ponders his question for a moment before she groans.

“Honestly, Kenny? I think she broke me.”

&.

Once backup arrives, she’s taken to the hospital for observation. Beyond the swelling bump on her forehead (she always suspected that getting headbutted would hurt, but she never imagined it would be _this_ painful), she has a mild concussion, and she’s sent home to rest, with orders to report in whenever she’s able to give her statement.

An agent that she doesn’t know is tasked with dropping her back off at her house and keeping a security detail outside, in case Villanelle decides to come back. She doesn’t speak to him on the way. She simply stares out the window and does her best not to drift off. As they reach her house, a white flash catches her eye, and she realizes that her bag of groceries is still resting in the middle of the sidewalk. She asks to be dropped off there, and before the car can fully stop, she steps out, stumbling a little as she finds her footing. 

The eggs are no good – the Styrofoam container is damp and sticky with yolk – and she doesn’t trust the milk either. The noodles, on the other hand, appear to be undamaged so, juggling them in one hand and clutching the bag in the other so that she can toss it all in the bin, she limps the few yards up the sidewalk to her front door. 

She doesn’t have to go too far before she finds the present. It’s sitting on her couch, neatly wrapped, with a decadent silver bow serving as the cherry on top. She knows that she should probably tell someone about it, but she suspects that, whatever is inside, it isn’t dangerous. If Villanelle truly wanted to kill her, she would have snapped Eve’s neck while she had her up against the column. 

She wants to drop everything, wants to rush into the living room and tear the wrapping paper off, but Villanelle’s words, her urge to _be patient_ , echo in her ears. So instead, blushing despite the persistent throb at her temples, she takes her ruined milk and eggs to the bin and cooks a pack of noodles on the stove, keeping her eyes on the back of her couch the entire time. Only when they’re cooked through does she cross the room, barely aware of how hot the bowl is between her fingers, and sit down. 

Carefully, she tugs at the bow, until it comes undone. Once it’s off, the lid of the box slides off easily, and she peels back the layer of tissue paper inside, carelessly tossing it aside. 

Underneath the tissue paper, looking back at her, is what appears to be a lingerie set, black and lacy, comprised of a number of straps and cut-outs that Eve would have a hard time figuring out on a good day, let alone on a day where she’s (lightly) concussed. For the time being, she focuses instead on the piece of paper resting in the middle of the box. Her name is written on the outside in neat, beautiful cursive, and she carefully picks it up. The paper is heavy and thick, creamy in color, clearly expensive, and she almost feels like she needs to dress up in fancier clothes before she reads the note. 

But fuck it. Despite Villanelle’s chiding, her patience has well and truly run out. 

Most of the paper, including the entirety of the top half on the interior side of the note, is wholly empty. The bottom half of the note contains only four words, written in the same handwriting.

_See you soon, baby._

Eve has no idea when _soon_ will be, but whenever it is, whenever next time may be, she plans on being ready.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
